


never let me down again

by tptafterdark



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Banter, Cuddling, First Date, First Kiss, First Time, Hair Pulling, House is so sassy, House x Vicodin OTP, Kink, Kissing, Light BDSM, Love, M/M, Marks, Mild D/s, Mild Masochism, Mild sadism, Safer Sex, Top!Watson, alcohol use, pain play, rough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4716122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tptafterdark/pseuds/tptafterdark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson takes control. Contents include drinking, swearing, sadism, masochism, discipline, masturbation, dangerously sharp banter, one whole hell of a lot of sexual tension, and finally -- I promise -- some graphic gay sex. Long (13,000 words or so) as it is, it's set entirely over the course of one evening. Takes place after (and contains spoilers up to) Whac-a-Mole (episode 3.09).</p>
            </blockquote>





	never let me down again

_I'm taking a ride  
with my best friend  
I hope he never   
lets me down again  
promises me I'm as safe as houses  
As long as I remember   
who's wearing the trousers...  
I'm taking a ride with my best friend._  
  
\--Depeche Mode, "Never Let Me Down Again"

  
  
_Life in hotels is sanitary and compact. Every room smells the same. All the moments line up in a row, and vanish into the vacuum cleaner marks on the carpets in the halls._  
  
Wilson had been drinking too much. It turned his thoughts purple. A psychologist once told him that his problem was too much thinking, and she was right, but what could he do? He eyeballed the ice in the bucket with the champagne -- warped glass cubes. You never saw icepicks anymore. No one could do that to himself regardless, but he was confident House would help, with glee. Just a little shove where the tears come out and problem solved.   
  
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he moved to pour another double shot of scotch, the civilized man's answer to the icepick lobotomy. Sipping it, he sat at the small round table in the corner, with his back to the room. Sitting at a table, in a chair, made him feel more awake. All he needed now was a clipboard and pen. He could prescribe himself some goddamn common sense. Since when --  
  
The scotch slopped onto the table as he set the glass down too hard. _Careful, Jim, that's alcohol abuse_ he heard House say. "I hate you," he said back, startling himself into standing up again. "You're just using me. You're a terrible friend," he told the empty room, too angry to care. "Get the fuck out of my life." He grabbed the glass, and almost threw it, but instead jerked his way to the dresser again for a refill. He should say it. He was really going to say it this time.  
  
He drank too fast and gave himself heartburn. It was so bad he sank to his knees beside the nightstand, thumping a hand uselessly against his sternum. He scrambled for the chalky tablets in the drawer with his other essentials, shocked as always at how much something so simple could hurt so fucking much, then understanding hit him and he sat back hard. Fingers still in the plastic bottle, he forced himself to wait, to feel the pain, to experience it. To imagine it would never end, for the rest of his life, until it finally wore him out.  
  
"I hate you," he said again, but it wasn't what he meant. He chewed five Tums, and when he could breathe again, reached up for the phone. When he opened to House's knock an hour later, they were both completely wasted.  
  
  
  
2.  
  
"It's the least I could do," House said drily when Wilson didn't greet him, and pushed his way into the room. "For a friend in need. Well, at least it isn't an intervention -- I think. Uncle Jethro? You in there?" He opened the bathroom door, flicked the light switch on and off. "Ricky Jo? Bertha? I'm sorry I done made you cry..."  
  
"Knock it off," Wilson said, dispassionate but firm. House's eyes darted toward him and he met them, pretending to be Mr. Spock and glad telepathy was impossible. It worked; House's gaze dropped, and he sat dutifully on the edge of the bed, tossing his cane onto it first. Once situated, he thrust out a hand in the shape of a glass and gave Wilson an expectant look.  
  
"No." Wilson didn't hide his interest in House's reaction to this. He stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the dresser where his tray of bottles and glasses would reflect enticingly in the mirror, and tried to look cool.  
  
"Why not?" House was apparently playing Mr. Spock too. "My liver's fine. So far."  
  
"Because," and Wilson realized there was no way to play this completely straight, as it were, so he let himself smile a little. "You have to pay the toll."  
  
"You're drunk," House said instantly. "And you're still mad at me. You never flirt with me when you're sober or calm."  
  
"I never flirt with you at all," Wilson lied. "How many pills did you take tonight?"  
  
"Let me see. One, two, fuck, you," House counted off unevenly on his fingers, finishing with the one in the middle. The rest of his body language was just as adolescent and hostile, though theatric, as if they were now playing a game, or following a script.  
  
_Absolutely not_ , Wilson thought, and surprised himself for the second time that night. He leaned forward and slapped House across the face, hard.  
  
House's eyes went wide, childlike, and for a moment Wilson felt a terrible regret seeping in. _How could you_ , he started to think, but then he saw that House was smiling: "Jesus," he said. "I guess I deserved that."   
  
Nowhere near enough. Wilson took a single step back. "For stealing from me? No," he said, "what you deserve for that we'll get to later. If you can stay quiet for -- "  
  
"Please can I have a drink?" House interrupted him, all civil and mock-sweet. The mark of Wilson's hand was starting to form in pink on his face. "If we're going to box, I need more muscle relaxant."  
  
Wilson turned without comment and poured. _I hate you_ , he thought, aware of how pathetic he sounded even in the privacy of his own mind. It wasn't scotch in the glass but pure Irish whiskey, Jameson's. He could remember smelling it on Greg's breath ten years ago, fifteen -- some long cool dawn they spent together in a car, passing a joint and a bottle, breathing rock music. _Get out of my life_ , he thought again, desperately, but it wasn't working anymore.   
  
"We're not boxing," he said, thrusting the glass into House's eager hands. "You're behaving yourself while I lecture you."  
  
"Kinky," House said cheerfully, and Wilson considered hitting him again. "Who wears the Catholic schoolgirl uniform?"  
  
"Oh, I think you know the answer to that." Wilson finished the last of his own drink, and crouched to open the mini-fridge for a bottle of water, silently. Standing again, he drank deeply and then recapped the bottle and set it aside. Taking his time, because House hated to wait. Finally, he pulled the chair from the table, turned it around, and sat facing the bed, where House was now leaning back on his elbows, balancing the glass on his good thigh.  
  
"Doctor, my face hurts," House said the very moment he had eye contact again. "I think I might need a prescription -- "  
  
"Shut up." No more lightness. Wilson was still calm, but there was a threat implied behind the command this time, and it worked. House's mouth snapped closed, and he even sat up a little, though he pretended it was to drink. Likewise, he pretended his look of attentiveness was ironic, but Wilson saw the glint of real interest, and the shadow of a blush.  
  
"I know you won't apologize," he went on. "You don't think you did anything wrong. And in a way, that's accurate. It's not wrong for a starving man to steal bread. But you targeted me -- "  
  
"We went over this in Atlantic City," House said. "And it was uncomfortable enough even with a chaperone. Can we skip the processing and --"  
  
"I told you to shut up." Wilson's expression stayed even, but an element of challenge appeared around his mouth. _Try me_ , he thought. _Push me._ But contrary as always, House let him down, subsiding with a fake sullen look to cover the real one. "I'm lecturing here. You targeted me, for various reasons we don't need to explore further...right now. If the cop hadn't come along, you would have made sure I found out eventually, when the moment suited you. Your purposes. Your little emotional games. I know you needed the pills."   
  
House was still looking at him, not making any ridiculous faces, just watching him, carefully, warily. Wilson heard his own voice get a little slower and deeper, as if he were embarrassed, but all he could feel was nervous anticipation. He hoped he wasn't so drunk he wasn't successfully hiding how drunk he was. "I know you needed me, and I held out on you. But you should have told me. That night -- the next day -- you should have told me what you'd done. For one thing, I'm a better liar when I have time to prepare." He stood up suddenly and returned to his makeshift bar on the dresser top, pouring himself some whiskey with his back to the bed. He couldn't look at Greg and finish saying this. "You have to make amends. Apologies don't work for us. And I can't just -- get over it, this time."  
  
But he had to sneak a look. Picking up his drink, he glanced in the mirror, and saw Greg staring at the back of his head. He looked pissed. Good. He turned, casual, practically an ad in a magazine. "Will you," he asked, or meant to ask, but the final inflection got lost in his throat, and he cleared it with whiskey, eyes never leaving his best friend's face.  
  
"Make amends?" House lifted his glass as if in a toast. "To amends. Reparations. An excellent idea. Of course. What'll it be, boss? Shine your shoes, mow your lawn, clean your wife's pipes? Oh, that's right, no lawn, no wife. And I bet her pipes are squeaky clean these days." He kept his hand raised, regarding Wilson with one of his cheerfully defiant expressions, as if daring him not to clink.  
  
Wilson exhaled slowly through his nose. He looked at the carpet, then at House again, without a trace of amusement (or, he hoped, the drunken near-giddiness he felt pooling in his stomach). He'd known that House would find some way to get a dig in, even if it meant reaching like that; it was how the man preserved his dignity when he felt vulnerable. Wilson decided to ignore it, all of it, and press on. "Get in the shower," he said.  
  
House cocked his head, glass still in the air.   
  
"Go take a shower." Wilson returned to his chair and put his back to House, pulling the book he'd left sitting on the table toward himself with finality. "And shave. You're taking me out for dinner."   
  
"I don't have -- "  
  
"Shower," Wilson said, turning to a page at random as if dying to finish his chapter. After a moment, he heard the cane thumping into the bathroom, and the sound of the taps running soon after. He smiled, sat back, and looked at his watch. He was shaking a little, but as long as he didn't think about what he was doing, he felt fine. When two minutes had gone by, and he could hear House humming the girl part from some old Velvet Underground song, he stood up, walked to the bathroom door, opened it, and stepped inside.  
  
  
3.  
  
The bathroom was small, full of steam and the smell of cheap hotel shampoo. The shower curtain was just translucent enough for Wilson to see the shape of House's body as a shadow behind it. "Occupado," House said, and his shadowy hands returned to his head, presumably rinsing his hair.   
  
Wilson left the door open a crack and leaned against the counter, facing the shower curtain. He felt much better this way -- invisible, he could let his eyes do what they wanted, and spend less cognition on hiding his reactions. Now he had only his voice to control.   
  
And his best friend, of course.  
  
Even now a small voice of sanity and sobriety was trying to get his attention from somewhere in the back of his brain. Just what did he think he was doing? Where was he going with this? What they both needed was a lot less of each other, a lot fewer mind games. Not this enormous escalation Wilson was in the process of launching. And that was just if Wilson was right, and House would go along with it. But remembering the odd little smile on Greg's face earlier, and the way he'd obeyed the order to shut up -- but that could have just been --  
  
Wilson realized that the shadow behind the shower curtain had stopped moving again, and that he had to say something soon, or one of House's compulsive wisecracks would set them back to square one. "I wasn't quite finished," he said, wishing for the icepick to quiet his brain again. But it turned out to be unnecessary, because House still didn't say anything, and indeed turned so his head wasn't under the water.   
  
_So he can hear me better_ , Wilson thought. A strong, mysterious wave of pleasure swept over him, and he had to lean a hand on the counter beside the sink to steady himself. No more pesky brain to present an obstacle to his progress. House was...vulnerable, wet, and behaving himself because Wilson told him to. _But this isn't queer or anything_. This one wild thought managed to fly through the haze in his brain, and he almost laughed out loud. Keeping it carefully out of his voice, he went on:  
  
"I'm going to tell you to do some things now, Greg, and then you have a choice." The sound of the water meant he had to raise his voice a little. "You can tell me to go fuck myself, doubtlessly in a dry and witty fashion, and I'll leave the room. We'll go out to dinner, and pretend none of this happened. I'll stop trusting you alone in my office, or house. I won't so much as let you watch my coat without counting the coins in my pocket when I get back, provided the feds ever unfreeze me and we don't both end up in prison. Maybe I'm wrong, and I'll get over it. Trust you again...eventually. Probably I will."  
  
Behind the curtain, Greg was shifting to lean against the tile wall, one hand on the silver bar Wilson had made sure the bathroom had when booking the room. His leg would be starting to hurt, even with the support. Still he said nothing, but Wilson was keenly aware that their gazes would be meeting if not for the layer of plastic. He was dying to know what expression he'd see there, but he wanted his anonymity right now even more.  
  
"Or you can..." He had to swallow, damnit, his throat closed up on him right when he needed most to be a Vulcan. "Or you can behave." He'd thought he would say more, explain it more, unfold his reasons, but now that seemed it would be a sign of weakness. And probably unnecessary. They knew each other very well, after all. "And make amends."  
  
The shadow didn't move, didn't speak. Wilson realized he was breathing oddly, and was glad for the noise of the water to cover it up, then wondered what it was hiding for Greg. Was he laughing? Sighing impatiently? Did he...  
  
"Okay," House said, and Wilson exhaled. "Tell me."  
  
Another silence. Was he the only one in the room experiencing this tension, was that even possible? It felt like a psychic cloud filling the room, denser than steam. _Move the curtain_ , he thought. _Look in his eyes. Step under the water. Touch him. At long last._ It was so compelling he took a step towards the shadow of House, hand starting to rise, and he thought the shadow reacted, shrinking back as if in fear. So he stopped, stepped back again, squeezed his eyes shut tightly, and spoke. "Face the faucet," he heard himself command. His voice was rough, tight -- maybe betraying too much, but he didn't care anymore. "Get on your knees."  
  
He heard House inhale sharply, and another wave of desire broke against his belly. Getting under Greg's skin was altogether too exciting. How much of it was surprise, how much fear? "I won't be able to get back up again," House said, but he didn't sound afraid, or shocked. He was stating the facts without embellishment or adornment...which was behavior bordering on the bizarre, for him. What did it mean? What did he feel?  
  
_None of your business_ , Wilson thought. _It doesn't matter. He feels what he feels. What matters is that he's still listening._ "I know," Wilson said. "I promise not to let you drown. If you don't want me near you when we're done, I'll have the front desk send up a Brazilian prostitute in a sexy nurse uniform to help you up."   
  
"Senior administrative nurse uniform," House said. That was a relief, and Wilson even let himself smile, but then his brain caught up with his ears and mouth. _'When we're done'. What have you started, Jimmy? What have you done? Why why why won't you stop doing it? Now is a perfect time. Laugh. Pretend it was all a joke. Eat steak, talk about monster trucks, and jerk off furiously when he goes home, punching the bed when you come and biting back his name -- No._  
  
"Whatever you want," Wilson assured him. "Just...trust me."  
  
It took a moment, because House had to carefully sink down on his good leg and then maneuver the bad one into place. It was long enough for Wilson to realize he wasn't shaking anymore -- indeed, his body felt ready to run a marathon. His cock was also aching and half-hard, but he was still refusing to analyze the obviously sexual thrill he was already getting out the situation. He couldn't pretend it wasn't there, but he didn't by-god have to think about it, that was for sure.  
  
"Okay," House said again. "What now?" Still there was no petulance, just an oddly light tone, and he understood: just as Wilson was using his need to control the situation to keep himself from really thinking about it, House was using his curiosity. He'd known it couldn't be true obedience, not yet. Not wholly.  
  
_Not yet, Jim?_ His brain demanded to know just how long they were planning to play this little game, exactly. I can't hear you, he told himself, feeling drunk again for the first time since he entered the increasingly hot bathroom. "Put your hands behind your back," he said, "and close your eyes."   
  
As soon as he saw the shadow arms move, he stepped forward and swept open the shower curtain.   
  
  
  
4.  
  
Wilson kept his eyes on the spout, in which House's kneeling form was just a pink blur. He couldn't look...yet. He had to focus. Pausing first to roll up his sleeve, he reached in and grasped the tap's silver arm, set into a circular plate in the tile. Friendly little stripes of blue and red indicated the appropriate direction to adjust. He pulled it to the middle, and the water stopped.   
  
The silence unnerved him a little, and he kept his hand on the tap, looking up into the showerhead as a few final drops fell. He heard them hit Greg's head, but still he didn't look down. Instead, he straightened and grabbed a towel from the rack, drying his arm with it.   
  
"You love to push me, Greg, " he said, casually, and he had to really force himself not to look, now, to pretend the business of arm-drying was much more fascinating than the naked man kneeling in his bathtub. "Did you ever stop to wonder to where you wanted me pushed?" His tone made it clear that this was no hypothetical, but just in case, he added, "Answer me."  
  
"Yes," House said, instantly. "Off the piers at the East River. Or maybe just the roof of the Psych wing, where we're both going to end up in one padded room, apparently." Now he sounded defiant again; Wilson knew the exposure was hard for him to bear, so he was reaching for his defenses. Though there was a strange note, something -- ah.   
  
"Who's flirting now?" Wilson asked, triumphantly, and House fell silent. Wilson sensed motion, though, so it was time, it couldn't be avoided any longer. Still holding the towel, he turned and looked.  
  
Greg was on his knees, thighs parted and straight, spine rigid. His wrists crossed just over the middle of his ass, and his head was bent, eyes indeed still closed. He'd just shifted his weight, Wilson guessed, or maybe shivered -- he was probably both in pain from his bad leg, and cold. Wilson made note of these things, but paid them no particular mind. Both would soon be among the least of House's discomforts.  
  
"I'm curious," Wilson said quietly, still looking down, unable to stop tracing Greg's back with his eyes. "Did you know what you wanted?" He reached his right hand out to rest lightly on the silver arm of the tap. "Open your eyes, but don't look up," he added sharply, abruptly, because he wanted to see how fast House would comply.   
  
Instantly, he saw the lashes rise, but House's shoulders relaxed just a little bit, as if it were a relief to see even just white porcelain again. Not a good test, then, after all. Wilson realized the answer wasn't coming because he hadn't instructed Greg to give it. His fingers gripped the tap tightly for a moment, then he said, "Answer me. But resist the urge to be sarcastic."  
  
"How about irreverent?" House moved again as he spoke, and this time Wilson caught it -- not shifting his weight at all, but a little shimmy, a subtle twist. He was showing off. He knew Wilson was looking, and wanted him to look. To see. To like what he saw. Wilson watched as House's shoulders went just a little bit red, and failed to rise and fall quite as often as they should, as he awaited his besuited captor's response to this small insolence.  
  
Once again, Wilson found himself wanting to laugh. But it quickly dissipated into the haze that now seemed almost to cloud his vision. He was shaking again , and his head was racing faster than his heart. His skin felt hot and prickly. He squeezed the tap between his fingers, glad to have a physical anchor to hold. Forcing himself not to think about touching flesh instead. This was serious business they were at, as ridiculous as it would look on tape if there was a camera in the ceiling. He had to focus. There was something he had to say, what was it? He searched the crystal lines rolling down House's increasingly goose-bumped shoulders, followed them down to his ruined thigh, and knew.  
  
"I'm sorry I let you down, Greg." Still gazing sadly at House's shoulders, he twisted the tap halfway up the happy red stripe.   
  
The shower burst into life. He heard Greg hiss through his teeth, but it wasn't pain -- surprise, he supposed. Or maybe a laugh. House's profile was almost impossible to read, especially at this angle. Wilson assumed that to him, this was still some kind of game, which he played only because if he didn't, he'd never find out what Wilson was up to. Even the flirting could just be House's usual capering. It was time to make clear the seriousness of the situation.  
  
Wilson dropped the towel still dangling from the hand that wasn't on the tap. He reached down and seized a handful of wet dark hair. Twisting, he pulled House's forehead closer to the tap, so more of his back would be exposed, and more pressure put on his legs. Now he heard a groan of pain, and he liked it. He liked it more than he should, but he couldn't stop now. He twisted Greg's hair again, pulling too hard. _You're a doctor_ , his rational mind yelled wildly at him, but he was in the reptile brain now. His other hand edged the tap up higher, and the water pressure increased. The room was starting to get steamy again. Greg's back was turning red, but it wouldn't hurt too badly, not yet.  
  
"I won't let it happen again," Wilson continued, jaw clenched so that the words barely escaped. He leaned in, over, pushing House's face down until it almost touched the water pooling in the bottom of the tub. Then he yanked up, released, stepped back. He felt like a mad scientist, like it was blood on his clothes and hands instead of water. "Don't move," he snapped, only it came out more like a growl, and House's whole body seemed to twitch. Now what was that, exactly? Suddenly he wished for House's banter again, anything to give him a sense of the man's mind.  
  
"You never answered my question," Wilson said slowly. The hot water beat down on House's skin, and Wilson could tell it was getting decidedly uncomfortable now. "Do I have to scald it out of you?" He knew the water wouldn't get hot enough to do any permanent damage, but it could certainly hurt. More importantly, it would make House's skin more tender for what he planned next. He crouched to pick up the towel again, now damp from the steam and the condensation on the floor. His eyes never left the fascinating redness of Greg's back, the taut lines that betrayed his pain.   
  
"Sorry, I'm a little distracted. Differential diagnosis of psychiatric problems isn't my area of specialty." House's voice was tense, tight, more than a little angry. Ashamed, perhaps, to be where he was. Unlike Wilson, who had known he wouldn't be able to resist, Greg must be surprised he wasn't fighting this harder, demanding to be let up, to stop this stupid game. House thought he had a special dignity, and it was true, but he owed it to the pain, like Hans Christian Anderson's mermaid who walked on knives. Wilson saw the same dignity in hundreds of dying patients' faces, in the agony of their wasted bodies. Too much of it to care about House's petty vanity.  
  
Besides which, there was something else in that voice. _Look at me_ , Wilson almost ordered, but some instinct stopped him. He sensed that if they were to look at each other, the whole thing would crumble and they'd start laughing, or worse. Much worse.   
  
So he said nothing, instead notching the tap further up the red stripe. This time when House writhed there was no doubt it was pain, and Wilson had to touch him again. He crouched, bending in until his head and shoulders were caught in the stinging spray, until his mouth was close to Greg's ear, and slid a hand across the back of Greg's neck. "Just tell me," he breathed, not trusting his voice to go any louder.   
  
Greg's back arched under the spray, or maybe it was Wilson's touch he reacted to. Or both -- the sound he made certainly had a certain complicated feel to it. "I did," House rasped back. "I said yes."  
  
Wilson realized this was completely true, that once again, House had hidden the answer out in the open, and he'd missed it entirely. He closed his eyes, still for a moment, feeling the same heat House did on his arm, in his fingers, through his whole damn body. His hand started to slide down, fingertips pressing in, leaning forward until his lips almost brushed Greg's ear.   
  
Then he jerked away, up, wrenching the tap into the off position. "Good," he said, savagely, putting all the restrained desire into it. He dipped down and seized the towel, wringing it hard between his palms. "If you'd said no, I couldn't do this." He chose his target, just above the crossed wrists, and swung.   
  
  
5.  
  
It was louder than he expected, and so was Greg. The crack-thud of cotton on skin, wet and dense, wielded deftly by a man who played squash three times a week for the last ten years, and echoing on the tile, actually made his ears ring. He couldn't tell, therefore, if the noise that escaped Greg's throat was pleasure or pain, approval or dissent. Or, as was always possible, a laugh.   
  
He swung again, and again, some detached part of him deliberately leaving a pattern of marks he found aesthetically pleasing. The noises and movements Greg was making made it impossible to stop, made him strike harder, faster. He saw a flash of eyes at last -- too much to bear for more than a second, his best friend's gaze was heated, grateful, and defiant. In response he struck the hardest blow of all, and raised his arm again.  
  
But Greg's hand was sliding up the side of the bathtub, fingertips curled then outstretched, and Wilson dropped the towel as if it were on fire, stumbling back, aware of himself again. He'd considered setting up some safe word or signal; he knew that was the right and proper way of things, and methodical as always, he was determined to do this correctly. And then he just forgot, caught up in the moment.   
  
Far, far too caught up, he realized with growing horror. His shoulder ached disturbingly. Greg's back and ass were a mess of red stripes, some of them welts. He'd fallen out of position completely and was now nearly face down in the tub, arms stretched out, back arched.   
  
How many times had the towel struck, Wilson wondered. Had he caught the first signal, had he stopped in time? He dropped to his knees and reached for the hand that had reached for him, panting for air, feeling like he might have his first asthma attack in thirty years. His fingers slid through Greg's and were instantly clenched tightly, which reassured him somewhat. He bent his forehead until it touched their knuckles, and House finally spoke.  
  
"Where'd you learn that one, Doc? Boy Scouts?" His throat sounded raw; he must have been making a lot of noise. Wilson hoped no one had summoned the authorities -- he vaguely recalled some cursing and threats mixed in with the groans and yelps. The reality of what he had just done was still sinking in, and so, apparently, was the memory. _Oh the way he moved_ , he thought, and then: _You're a sick man, Jimmy._ But he didn't believe that. Not really. Not all the time.  
  
There was a long silence then, broken only by their breathing and the occasional drip from the tap. Then Jim thought: _His leg_ , and carefully extracted his hand from where it felt fused to Greg's, sliding it up Greg's arm and positioning himself to act as a fulcrum.   
  
House seemed to get it right away, and began maneuvering his body until he was upright and balanced enough to pull himself up, first on Wilson's arm and shoulder, then on the bar. He kept his head bent so his expression was mostly hidden.  
  
Jim was keenly aware of the other man's nakedness for the first time in a few minutes, but wouldn't let himself look. He didn't even try to meet Greg's eyes again, much as he wanted to. He understood that his friend needed emotional privacy, even in a moment as bizarrely intimate as this. He didn't know if Greg felt the same intense arousal he felt himself, but he knew what it meant that he'd been allowed to continue at all. One way or another, Greg needed this as much as he did. Needed Jim to be this, for him.   
  
"You still have to shave," he heard himself saying, and thought he saw a smile. He bent in to turn on the water, once more at a reasonable temperature, and Greg turned until his back was under the spray, warm and soothing on the lurid red marks.   
  
Suddenly House tilted his face up so the spray would catch his hair, eyes closed, and he _was_ smiling, just a little. Wilson wanted nothing more than to stand and stare, wondering how any of this was possible. Instead, he closed the shower curtain and slipped out the door.  
  
  
6.  
  
Wilson's clothes were soaked. Hands shaking, he started to unbutton his shirt, standing in front of the closet as he did. House would need clothes as well, but more importantly --   
  
Wilson shrugged the shirt onto the floor as he bent to pick up his little black bag, stashed behind his shoe tree. He was determined to ignore the erection that pressed insistently against his trousers as he did so. He flicked it open, and found the little tan bottle at the bottom, unmarked, half full. Pausing to grab a cup from the dresser, he leaned into the bathroom just enough to set it and the pills on the counter next to the sink.   
  
In the shower, House was humming the same Velvet Underground song, apparently just standing under the spray. Wilson felt like he was returning to a crime scene. He grabbed the wet towel from the floor, verified that a dry one was still hanging, and ducked back out, closing the door behind him this time. Then he leaned his back against it for a moment, palms pressed to his face. When he felt steady, he staggered back toward the closet, unbuttoning his pants.   
  
_Just get changed_ , he commanded himself, pulling two neatly folded pairs of jeans -- it was casual diner he had in mind, and House's ass looked fantastic in bluejeans -- from the top shelf. He unbuttoned and started to slide his pants down over his hips. _Just get..._ but the relief of freeing his cock from the trousers was too much to bear, and he gave up. If House caught him, well, it was only fair.   
  
Quickly, he moved to the bed, sitting on the edge and leaning back. There was a box of tissues on the nightstand to clean up with, he noted, and then lost touch with the Earth entirely. He closed one hand around his aching cock, slid the other up over his stomach, and his mind launched a frantic series of images.   
  
"Oh, fuck," he whimpered, falling back hard against the bed. There was Greg, smirking on this same bed with a handprint on his cheek -- there he was standing, then kneeling under the water -- there he was, twisting and crying out under the makeshift lash. Fantasy mixed in with the memories, everything he'd wanted but couldn't do, now made vivid by concurrent reality. In his mind, he pulled Greg's hair again, this time not down to the water, but to himself, and Greg's hot mouth closed over his glans.   
  
Wilson stroked furiously, but while he felt he was teetering right on the edge, he couldn't come. He heard House turn off the shower, and started to panic, but he couldn't stop, either. All he could see was the white tile, his best friend against it, obedient and beautiful. There in his memory was Greg, glancing up with that expression of defiant gratitude, and what looked so much like desire. _I wonder if he's doing the same thing I am, in there_ , he thought, and groaned out loud as he finally came.   
  
Instantly after, he froze. Surely Greg had heard. But there was silence from the bathroom, then the sound of the sink -- he'd found the pills. Shortly after, the electric razor started buzzing. Wilson let out a sigh and grabbed the tissues, cleaning up as best he could. It was ridiculous to keep trying to hide his attraction to his best friend; at this point, they were more than a little past that. But still he was afraid, even now he was afraid, and he hoped House hadn't heard.  
  
He forced himself to put that and everything else out of his mind, and it was a lot easier now that he'd had some relief. By the time House thudded out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, Wilson was situated once more at the little table in the corner, pretending to read his book.   
  
  
7.  
  
He'd found the diner one insomniac night out wandering, and known House would dig it. It was a single small room, full with red velvet booths and large, round, glass-topped tables. The walls were adorned with tacky neon stars. A fake palm tree draped in gold lame jutted out of the middle of every table, so the thick trunk obscured your view of anyone sitting directly across. Wilson requested the booth in the darkest corner. He thought the place was hideous. When they stepped in, Greg clapped his hands like a child.   
  
The cab ride there was surprisingly comfortable. House had been downright chipper as he dressed, while Wilson kept his eyes on the page, because he knew it was an awkward process. But House had started talking cheerfully about some untranslated article in a German journal of nephrology, and he'd found himself responding. Before he knew it, they were at the diner, still debating the relative value of administering a particular caspase inhibitor to Lupus patients with kidney disease.   
  
They were both in jeans and black t-shirts, so when Wilson caught a glimpse of their fuzzy reflections in the window as they arrived, they looked ten years younger. In the mirage, House's cane seemed like an affectation, the prop of a hale young fellow wanting to seem vulnerable to the ladies. _That's why he always dresses like this_ , Wilson thought. His own bare arms were startling to him, and he longed for crisp cuffs and the comforting armor of a suit jacket. At some point it had become clear that House would always look a little older, and Wilson a little younger, than they really were, and both had started to make certain adjustments in presentation to account for it.  
  
Of course, there was another reason he'd chosen the casual atmosphere. House preceded him, as usual -- it was better for him to have plenty of room to move at his own pace, besides which, Jim liked being able to keep an eye on him. This time, there was a particular reason for that. Some of the welts were high enough to show just a little bit above Greg's collar, and there was even one, Wilson noticed with a mixture of shame and excitement, curling around the back of the left triceps.  
  
It happened that he noticed this just when they were momentarily secluded in the narrow, dark passage between the diner's front doors and the bar. He had just been thinking that, as deftly as House had manipulated them back to a comfortable level of discourse, he was determined not to let either of them pretend nothing had happened. That was when he saw his marks on Greg's skin. Nothing could stop his hand from sliding up to rest just where it had before, across the back of Greg's neck, fingertips pressing in possessively.   
  
They were so close, for that brief instant, that he felt Greg's body moving like a reed against his own. Then the inner door opened and they were standing in the dim kaleidescope light of the restaurant. Wilson's hand dropped back to his side, and House straightened to deliver his hand clap of delight at the atmosphere. Wilson could see in the mirror over the bar that they were both smiling like cats as they moved to the booth. This was all going much better than he'd imagined possible.   
  
As they settled into the booth, Wilson nimbly took House's menu away and set it on the seat beside himself. He tried to keep his expression perfectly neutral as he did so, and also not to look too eager to see House's reaction. Banter, that was what they needed. "It's so ugly here, I knew you'd love it," he said, opening his own menu casually.   
  
House settled back and watched him, still looking cheerful, a touch bemused, perhaps. "And I know you love it because you think it's so ugly," he said. He settled back, comfortable, free of the obligation of choosing his own meal. Free to stare with great fascination at Wilson's every little movement. _Oh, so it's like that_ , Jim thought. _Trying to psych me out._  
  
"The food is terrible, and the portions are so small," Wilson schticked, and then cringed at himself.   
  
But House was grinning; he always got it. "Pickles on everything, I bet," he said. He wriggled his back against the velvet booth as if it hurt, and sighed as if that helped. Jim's hands gripped the menu a little tighter. For a moment, the silence was tense.  
  
"Cuddy's looking ripe lately," House said, and the pressure eased a little. "I think she's fucking Chase, how bout you?" He blew the end off the paper sheath on a straw and sipped water. "I want a drink," he added, as the waiter approached.   
  
"You're just --" Wilson started, then turned to the small brown man holding a pen and pad anxiously at his side. "I'll have the shredded pork, please, and he would like a cubano with no pickles, red beans and yellow for both, and two mojitos."  
  
House was playing with the napkin dispenser and didn't react to the order. Wilson tried not to feel disappointed. "I have no idea what you mean," he finished. "I'm not sure I've so much as seen them say 'good morning'. You're just inventing intrigue."  
  
House grinned, arms stretched out along the velvet boothtop. "Want to bet?" he said.  
  
"Bet what," Jim asked, too fast, and covered by sipping water out of the enormous vintage Coke glass.   
  
House was still for a moment, then the tiniest smile ghosted his face again. "Answers," he said, evenly, folding his hands on the table again like he was brokering a deal.   
  
Wilson looked him over, considering. The salsa on the PA system crackled and skipped -- not a record, but somebody's tape recording of one. House was looking back at him, friendly and unreadable. Finally, Jim said, "You already have evidence, or you wouldn't risk it."  
  
House was still smirking at him. "Do I? Or am I bluffing?" Behind him, one of the neon stars was winking on and off. Probably a fire hazard.  
  
"Well," Wilson answered, sitting back himself, "you've been looking entirely too pleased with yourself since you brought it up, which you did apropos of nothing, I might add. But mostly, it's this." He picked up the bit of straw wrapper that had flown from the end of House' straw. "In your office, you would have tossed the Lacrosse ball. Up if you don't know, and across --" He tossed the wrapper back across the table. " -- if you do. Hence, you already have evidence."   
  
House listened to this with an expression of warm disbelief, but Jim could see the corner of his mouth creeping up. "Unless," he said the moment Wilson finished speaking, "I'm deliberately sending false signals." He reached for the wrapper, which caused his t-shirt sleeve to ride up and expose the welt around his tricep.   
  
Wilson knew he was meant to look, and therefore must not, but couldn't stop himself. And as he did, House was looking directly at him, almost defiantly again.  
  
"False signals?" Wilson asked, deliberately, emphasizing even though he knew House would grasp the subtext without it.   
  
Looking down, House swept the paper toward himself and began to manipulate it on the glass tabletop. He went on speaking in the same tone. "The only way to find out..." He tucked here, pushed there, creating some kind of abstract art with the scrap. "...is to take the action." He gave his voice gravel, and glanced up dramatically, like a movie mobster.  
  
Wilson was ready for that. When House looked up, he was checking out a blond woman in a low-cut green blouse, and only returned his gaze slowly, as if he hadn't even been listening. "Hmm?" he said, not bothering to pretend he wasn't pretending; that wasn't the point.   
  
"Hey," House said, unfazed. "Are you looking at other girls? I thought we were on a date." He pushed the abstract paper sculpture to Wilson. "Look, I even got you a corsage."  
  
"Are we both girls now?" Wilson picked up the paper and solemnly placed it atop his right shoulder. House wasn't the only one who took refuge in absurdity sometimes. _A date,_ he thought. He'd known that, but wasn't entirely sure Greg did, even after Jim's stunt with the menu.  
  
"Oo, do you have another Catholic school uniform?" Just as House said this, their drinks arrived, so he raised his voice for the benefit of the waiter. "It's been a while since the last time I shaved my legs, but -- oh, thank God, I thought he'd never leave." He seized his mojito and stirred it with the little red straw, turning a friendly expression back to Wilson. "Where were we?"  
  
"I was turning down your offer of a wager," Wilson said, "because I think you're cheating." House made a who-me face, but he ignored it. "And if you want me to know something so badly, you should just tell me."  
  
"Maybe it's more that I want you to ask," House said. His voice was softer now, more serious, though his eyes were still having fun.  
  
"Then," Wilson said, sitting back triumphantly, "you were bluffing after all. Playing to lose."   
  
"Unless I'm still sending false -- "  
  
"Did you like it?"  
  
"What?"   
  
Wilson's heart perched in his esophagus, and for a moment he felt sick. The room was wavering, and he realized that despite feeling like he'd sobered up completely between calling House and now, he was still a little bit intoxicated. He had not meant to speak. For a moment he couldn't look at Greg, couldn't say anything else, couldn't breathe. Then, incredibly, as soon his chest was moving again, he heard himself repeat the question. "Did you like it." He sat back and forced his eyes to Greg's face.  
  
House was looking at him with that unreadable mask of concentration which meant he was deep in analysis mode. Wilson was wondering what it could possibly mean, if it was more poker face, when it slipped away and revealed an expression of speculation, with a hint of satisfaction.   
  
"Yes," Greg said. "Did you?" But there was a false note in his voice. Jim knew at once that he had heard, after all.   
  
His only answer was a blush, and then the food arrived.   
  
  
  
  
8.  
  
Wilson had lied; the food was excellent. They talked about that, and other things of little consequence. When House tried to order a second drink, Wilson silenced him with a look and asked for two espressos. When the bill came, reminding them both of the sword hanging over them in the form of a bullish cop called Tritter, Greg slipped his credit card into the sleeve and cheerfully told the waiter, "Now he _has_ to put out."  
  
Jim could still feel himself blushing as they went outside to hail a cab. "Was that necessary?" he asked, irritated, knowing it was because he couldn't pay, not caring. "Embarrassing the poor guy like that?"  
  
"What's to be embarrassed about?" House's brows were up in mock naivete, but they quickly dropped. "Besides, it's not him you're worried about. It's you. I embarrassed you."   
  
Wilson signaled a driver, and they watched as the cab made its way down the block. After a moment, he said, "It could be both, you know. If you have to believe people are that selfish, at least don't exclude mixed motives."   
  
"I never do," House said instantly, glancing at him with one of those mysterious-yet-significant expressions that had driven Jim to violence in the first place. There was no time to reply; the driver was waiting, and House had to begin the process of dragging his bad leg and his cane into the backseat.   
  
Once he was situated, Wilson slid in beside him, and closed the door. He started to direct the driver to his hotel, but House interrupted with his own address. The driver sighed. "Where?" he asked, impatiently.   
  
House was refusing to look at Wilson, pretending to read the faded legal notice printed on the back of the plastic panel behind the driver's head. "I've got a stereo at my place," he said.   
  
"I need my bag," Wilson said, but he could tell that House had something in mind, so he added to the driver, "Can you make two stops?" He took the man's shrug and subsequent re-entry into traffic as a yes, and repeated the hotel address.  
  
This time they were silent for the ride, and Wilson felt the tension returning. When he got back from darting into his hotel room for his little black bag, House was talking to the driver about his wife's bursitis. Five more minutes and he'd probably have the whole family diagnosed with -- and cured of -- gout, scapula, scurvy, and brucellosis. Wilson was smiling as he slid back in, and when his hand brushed House's on the seat, he didn't move it away. They rode the rest of the way like that, pinky fingers just barely touching, casual enough to look accidental in the rearview mirror.  
  
All the while, Wilson was thinking about what might happen next. It hadn't escaped him that neither of them questioned that they would be going home together now. They'd stayed up after hours together many times, but always after some discussion. He supposed that since he'd asked, and got his answer, they had both known more or less how the night would end. Or it could all be in his head, nothing could mean what he thought it did, and House just wanted to force him to listen to _Machine Gun Etiquette_ for the thousandth time. The pressure he felt against his hand could be his imagination, or an accident after all.  
  
At some point, staring out his window at the shining evening lights, he caught Greg looking at him. He turned to look back, but it was too late. Greg was already looking out his own window, and his face in the reflection was too blurry to read.   
  
The night air was colder than he expected, or maybe it had been warm in the cab. He could see their breath as they climbed out, and he watched that instead of watching House pay the driver. Finally, they stood alone on the sidewalk. Wilson was about to speak when House started off, keys in hand. He followed along in his usual place, but this time, just before they reached the door, he reached out and rested his hand on the back of Greg's neck once more.  
  
Greg was still, and his body seemed drawn up, muscles tensed. The key was in the door, unturned; he had one hand on it and one on his cane. Jim stepped back, hand lifting slowly, so his fingertips almost stroked Greg's skin before it returned to his side. He had meant to say something, but his mind was suddenly full of static. "What do you want," he asked instead. He couldn't trust his voice above a murmur. "Why are we here?"  
  
House exhaled, and turned the key, pushing open the door. "We're here, aren't we?" he said, and thudded into the apartment.   
  
  
  
  
9.  
  
A lamp was always on, so House wouldn't stumble over his own clutter when he came home. Now it was especially important, because the place was still trashed from Tritter's search. "Did you want to come here so I'd see this?" Wilson asked, and House stopped in the middle of shrugging out of his jacket.   
  
"Maybe. Interesting hypothesis, Dr. Wilson. Why would I want to do that?"   
  
Wilson draped his own overcoat on the back of the couch, but remained standing, watching as House rested his cane against the sidebar and limped to the stereo. "So I'd feel guilty?" Wilson guessed, not believing it. "Angry?"   
  
"Is that what you feel?" House glanced up from his intent work digging through a pile of CD cases.   
  
"No," said Wilson, then: "Yes. Angry. Tritter infuriates me."   
  
House paused, smiled, and opened a case, sliding the CD into the player. "Is that why you chose tonight?" he asked, turning to face Wilson again, a few paces away.   
  
"What?" Jim had no idea what connection he was implying, and didn't even try to figure it out. House's psychological theories were more informative about himself than the people he applied them to, he'd decided years ago.  
  
"Nothing," House said. "Why would I want you to be angry?" There was that false note again which meant he knew the answer, and Wilson gave him a look, which House aped adolescently.   
  
"Because getting under my skin is how you come on to me," Jim replied, ignoring it and stepping closer. "By proxy, if necessary. And there's nothing you won't use. Not even this."  
  
"You used it first." Greg was watching him intently. The light was dim enough that his face had a shadow across it, and Jim wondered if he'd positioned himself there precisely for that effect. The stereo started playing jazz -- _Blue Train_. John Coltrane, not The Damned after all. He supposed that was as much an answer as anything.  
  
"Not hardly." Wilson couldn't keep the amusement out of his tone, but there was enough genuine anger left to balance it. He took another step forward. Greg waited, one hand on the shelf to steady himself. He looked wary, but expectant at the same time. It was an expression Wilson had seen before, and only now understood. Another step brought them so close that he had to stop, but he didn't. He moved a little closer, eyes steady on Greg's. "Is this what it's all been about? All the testing, the pushing..." He looked down at the now almost non-existent space between them, back up, no longer uncertain, but asking anyway. "This. Us, like this?"  
  
"Like what," Greg said, barely moving his lips, but managing to smirk a little anyway. "Drunken games of cowboys and indians in hotel bathrooms?"   
  
Jim could barely breathe their bodies were so close, and House was still cracking jokes. "Don't you ever stop?" he asked, amazed.   
  
Greg shifted so that their hips touched, and their mouths almost did the same. "Why don't you stop me," he said, and almost before he could finish saying it, Wilson pushed him hard against the sidebar, and they kissed.  
  
Greg's hands moved to touch Jim immediately, sliding under his shirt, pressing against his skin. Eager, almost desperate, a little rough. Not unlike the kiss itself, which went on much longer than he'd anticipated, as much as he'd allowed himself to think about it at all. It wasn't particularly sweet. It was hungry, with teeth, and after a moment he realized he was pressing against Greg so hard they were both leaning, in danger of toppling over. Then he felt his own hands sliding up, fingertips brushing the welts on Greg's back, and heard himself make a needy, primal noise. The sound of it returned him to reality, and he pulled away, turned away, completely incapable of looking his friend in the face yet again.  
  
"Jimmy."  
  
He shook his hand, one hand pressed to his mouth, shaking. He didn't know what he felt, except overwhelmed. Greg's hands were on his shoulders, pulling at him, trying to turn him back. "It's okay," he was murmuring, for some reason. His voice sounded distant. Wilson stared at the floor, feeling a mile away from it. "Come on, Jimmy," Greg whispered. "Don't chicken out on me now."   
  
Fear. That was it; he was afraid, after all, of the inevitable final step in the process he himself had initiated. "I've never, I don't..." he started to say, turning back, trying to explain, but House was shaking his head.   
  
"So what?" he said, arms around Jim, close enough to kiss again, eyes uncommonly warm.   
  
"Have you?" He'd wanted to ask all night -- more than all night, for years. Little comments, expressions, the way he'd catch House checking out Chase's ass instead of Cameron's sometimes. He'd sometimes wondered why House never just told him, but now he supposed he knew.  
  
"Have I...?" Greg was smiling a little, teasing, but Wilson's expression stopped him. He touched their foreheads together briefly, eyes closed, then pulled back again, looking over Jim's face. When he spoke, it was deliberate, intently watching Jim's reaction. "Yes. I've had sex with other men. A few times. Does that bother you?"  
  
"No. I don't know. Yes." Wilson sighed at himself, his own sudden crisis of confidence. He felt like his skin was imprinted with the heat of Greg's touch from a moment ago. Back in the bathroom, he'd been untouchable, in control. Greg was the one who didn't know what would happen next. He hated the helplessness of ignorance, had always hated it; it was one thing they had in common. He pulled away a little. "I'm not jealous. I just..."  
  
"You're not used to thinking of yourself this way." Greg pulled back as well, limped to the couch, and gestured to Wilson's place beside him.   
  
"I'm not -- "  
  
"Please don't say it," House said, suddenly grave, and Wilson knew this meant something, but couldn't imagine what. "We both know you're not. This is a...fluke. But that isn't what I meant. You think of yourself as suave, Lothario, and it's true the chicks don't just dig you for your pretty neckties. You've been coasting on raw sexual confidence since you got your first toy stethoscope." Wilson was still standing, staring at him, eyebrows up. House's tone was altogether too smug again. Wilson was amazed it was possible to be so horny and so annoyed at the same time. "Now I'm asking you to work without a map, and you're afraid your golden penis trophy might lose its lustre if you end up looking foolish."   
  
"Take off your shirt," Wilson said, after a moment. He decided to stop thinking, and simply act, because if he didn't, House would never shut up. He grabbed his bag, dug through for the little tube of ointment. He didn't look, but heard House obey, and twist on the couch to face the armrest, leaning toward it a little.   
  
Wilson moved around, sat, and regarded his work with interest. Many of the marks were completely gone, but those which remained would be there for a few days. They were red, raised, sore-looking, some bruised around the edges, but... "No permanent damage," he pronounced, beginning to apply the opaque paste with hands he kept carefully steady. "I'll have to be much more careful, next time."  
  
Greg inhaled. Jim worked the ointment in roughly, knowing it would sting. He watched his own hands stroking his friend's skin, and felt his cock stir again. Quickly, he finished his work, and used Greg's discarded shirt to wipe his hands clean. Then he slid them around Greg's shoulders to his chest, and moved himself onto his knees on the couch. He pressed his fingertips in and pulled himself closer until their bodies were almost touching again. "I'm going to bite you," he breathed against the back of Greg's neck. "Very hard. Are you ready?"  
  
"Yes." Greg's voice was just a breath of air as well, tight with nervous desire. His body tensed in anticipation, back arching a little, and Wilson could feel his rapid heartbeat, his shallow breathing. He brushed his lips against the warm skin, teasing at it, then sunk his teeth in.   
  
This was no nibble of affection. His goal was pain, and when Greg cried out and started to writhe, he bit harder. He was pressing against the sore marks, knowing Greg would feel his erection, wanting him to. His hands were tight on Greg's chest, almost clutching, as he increased the pressure again, then finally released.  
  
"You son of a bitch," Greg gasped, sounding giddy, and Jim pulled him around fast to kiss him again. This time there was no panic, no uncertainty. He was still kneeling while Greg sat, and he enjoyed feeling taller, bearing down over Greg, as he had in the bathroom what felt like years earlier that evening. But all at once he wanted badly to feel their bodies together again, and reached for Greg's hips to try to pull him all the way onto the sofa.   
  
"Bedroom," Greg whispered, stopping him, but then pulled him back into the kiss again for a moment. When they had to breathe, Wilson stood, then stooped to help Greg up. He started to slip an arm around Greg's waist to keep helping him all the way to the bed, but: "No," Greg said, firmly. "You go ahead. I'll catch up."   
  
Jim hesitated, then went, hearing the bottle open as he did. He stood in the doorway, facing the dark bedroom and trying to breathe. A moment later the cane thudded along behind him, and House pressed up behind him, pushing them both gently into the room.   


Unbelievable, to be standing here. House felt it too, he could tell. For a moment they just stood, close in the dark, sharing their disbelief silently. Almost, but not quite touching. Then he couldn't stand it any longer and pressed his palms to Greg's sore back again, seeking out another kiss aggressively. Greg played along, making him work for it, biting and pulling away. "Tease," Wilson panted against his mouth, and felt House's steady hands slide under his shirt.  
  
"Off," Greg whispered back. Jim stepped back, and pulled the shirt over his head. He heard the cane hit the floor somewhere, and the lamp click on. When he was done, Greg was sitting on the edge of the bed, preparing to drag his leg up. Wilson looked away, then wondered if that was now the wrong choice, and looked back.   
  
House had paused with one hand still on his thigh, and was watching him. They had a whole language of expressions between them, it sometimes felt like; there was a time when this had made Wilson very uncomfortable if he thought about it too much. Now, he was grateful for it. There were no words for the discussion they were having along the line of sight between them. There was too much silent history behind it, to begin with.   
  
He found himself moving, stepping towards the bed until he was standing over Greg, so close their knees brushed. He reached down and stroked Greg's cheek, and their eye contact finally broke as Greg leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. Wilson could hear them both breathing, now. He slid his hand into Greg's hair and pulled, forcing him to rise a little off the bed to meet him in another kiss. This time it was slower, more thoughtful, as Wilson was carefully pushing House back onto the bed while it went on. He hooked one arm under the bad thigh and pulled, so they ended up stretched out, with Wilson pressing down against House, still kissing delicately.   
  
Now he could feel the insanely interesting pressure of Greg's hard cock against his own, through the layers of cloth. He had been nervous that, confronted with another man's actual, aroused penis, he might suddenly feel the revulsion he kept fearing. But here in the moment, with this particular man, this concern seemed absurd. As he began to kiss his way down Greg's neck and chest, biting now and then, he even wondered why he hadn't tried this sooner.   
  
House's hand reached to stroke Jim's hair, hips lifting a little off the bed when he reached his navel. "Fuck yeah," he whispered, and Wilson couldn't help but smile against his skin. He pulled away to unbutton and unzip, and watched House's head fall back as his hips lifted higher to assist in the removal of his jeans and boxers.   
  
Tossing them away, he bent again to his work, fascinated by what waited for him. He'd never thought of male genitals as attractive, but now, again, he wondered why. Nothing could be as enticing as Greg's lovely, slightly crooked cock resting on his belly, jumping with his pulse a little, waiting for Wilson's ministrations. He kept his eyes open as he carefully kissed the tip, then flicked his tongue out across it experimentally. Greg gasped, which was all the encouragement he needed.   
  
He closed his lips around the head and slowly slid them down as far as he could, feeling dizzy with the heat and weight of Greg's cock filling his mouth. He might not ever have done this before, but he knew what _he_ liked, at least, and could start with that. He tried to build a rhythm up slowly with his head, rising and sinking while teasing his tongue all around the shaft. He tried to be careful, but his tooth grazed flesh -- and Greg moaned, pressing his hips up urgently. He...liked that?   
  
Wilson tried it again, and got the same response, this time with Greg's fingers tightening in his hair. He did like it. He decided to get rougher, faster, less careful. His jaw hurt already, but you didn't get the golden penis trophy without performing a whole lot of cunnilingus, so he was expecting that. It barely registered anyway, through the fascination of what he was doing, House's reactions, and his own almost painful arousal. He decided to take a risk. He slid his mouth to the tip of Greg's cock again, then midway down the shaft, and carefully, gently, closed his teeth around it, just enough to create a little sharp pressure.  
  
Greg's fingers tightened in his hair again, and he breathed, "Yeah. Harder."   
  
This stopped Wilson's thoughts entirely. He did it again, increasing the pressure just a little and growling in the back of his throat with pleasure as House responded with his own primal noise. He began to tease the cock with his tongue again, lips sliding along it, then suddenly bite down, a little harder each time. Greg's head was still tossed back. His hips pressed down against the bed now as if trying to escape, but his grip was still so tight Jim's scalp was starting to ache, and it was clear he wanted more.   
  
Taking a long, deep breath, Wilson began to slide his mouth all the way down the shaft until he felt the tip at the back of his throat, and then he kept going, praying he wouldn't choke. He breathed hard and fast through his nose, fighting off the panic that would make that happen for sure. Still he pressed on, and finally sank his teeth into the base of Greg's cock, the hardest bite yet, moaning around it in his throat.  
  
Greg drew a loud, ragged breath, and after just a moment groaned "Stop", pulling Wilson's hair to get him away. He quickly unclenched his teeth and let himself be pulled off, and up, until their bodies pressed together again. Greg kissed him hard, deep, and his hands moved between them to paw urgently at the button on Wilson's jeans.  
  
  
  
11.  
  
Jim gently removed House's hand from his waistband, pulled himself away, and stood to unbutton and unzip. But Greg said, "Wait. Over here." He gestured to the spot of floor just beside where his head was propped up on the pillows, flicking his eyebrows up.  
  
Once he was standing there, Greg reached out to carefully push the jeans and boxers down his thighs, twisting so his face was on a level with Jim's cock as it appeared. He looked hypnotized by it for a moment, just staring with what looked like eager anticipation. Then he glanced up at Jim again quickly with the tiniest smile, wrapped his hand around the base, and began to tease the tip with his tongue.  
  
It was slow, gradual, incredibly intense, the way Greg enveloped Jim's cock. Every sensation made him want just a little more, until he found his hips thrusting in desperation. Uselessly, because Greg just shifted back, squeezing his fingers tightly around the base, and continued his teasing, tongue swirling lazily as he suckled up and down.   
  
"Greg," Wilson half-warned, half-pleaded through clenched teeth, and felt the distortion of lips into a quick smile. That was it. He reached out blindly, seized a handful of hair and yanked, forcing Greg's mouth down harder. He knew it was exactly what House wanted him to do, but he did it anyway, because trying to resist might actually cause a psychotic break. His hips thrust again, and he felt his best friend's achingly hot throat on his cock, felt it tighten and resist, then relax. Pulling back until just the tip rested against Greg's lips, he made himself look down.   
  
House's eyes were closed. He looked lost in bliss, nuzzling at the dick in his face as if it contained Vicodin. Carefully, unable to break that incredible contact, Wilson maneuvered one knee up onto the bed, then swung the other over Greg's chest and planted it on the other side, just beneath the line of pillows. Now his thighs were on either side of Greg's head, and there would be no more clever ideas about who was in control of this blowjob.   
  
This earned him more enthusiastic lip and tongue work from House. He began to slowly sink his cock in as deep as he could, then slide it out almost all the way, finding his own steady rhythm. His hands came to rest on the top of the headboard as his hips moved, and he heard Greg making noises of pleasure around his shaft. He started to move faster, loving the way it felt when Greg gagged a little. He always felt guilty about that with women, but now it made him want to push deeper, harder. So he did.  
  
Greg's head started to hit the headboard a little, but Wilson barely registered it. He was lost in the sensations, the muffled groans coming from below, the reality of the moment he'd never imagined possible. So he didn't notice when Greg's hand slid from his thigh to nightstand's drawer, though later he saw that it was open. He barely felt Greg cupping and stroking his ass, though in some dim sense he was aware of it. But when Greg's oddly cool fingers began to explore a little more intimately, he noticed, all right.   
  
He stopped mid-thrust and slid out of Greg's mouth, pulling back a bit. House made a noise of protest and pushed against his ass as if to force a return to the action, but Wilson resisted, glancing back. A small tube of lubricant lay on House's stomach, and he'd somehow managed to pull on a white latex glove, with which he was now stroking Jim's hip in what was clearly meant to be a reassuring manner. He returned his gaze accusingly to House's face.   
  
"Relax," Greg said, innocently. "I'm a doctor."   
  
Jim felt he was entirely incapable of speaking, and tried to express himself with a look instead. His slick cock bobbed angrily with his pulse, and House again tugged at his hips to urge it back towards his mouth. "I don't -- " he started, then felt the tongue begin its work again, closed his eyes, and decided he could always knock House unconscious via the headboard if he had to make a quick escape.  
  
A moment later he felt the smooth gloved fingers begin their probing again. He tried to follow Dr. House's advice, knowing how sensible it was. He had performed similar explorations on a couple of more adventurous women. _I guess it's only fair_ , he thought, clenching his jaw and focusing on the sweet wet heat of House's eager mouth. The fingers withdrew, then one returned slick with lube, patiently massaging his hole until it began to slide easily inside.   
  
It didn't hurt so much, after all. It felt surprisingly good, especially with his dick half-buried in Greg's throat at the same time. He began to renew his former enthusiasm, now feeling Greg's fingers -- the first was joined by a second before too long -- pressing in deeper as his hips pulled back on each thrust. Though he was expecting it, the pleasure that jolted through him at the first deliberate contact of fingertips against his prostate was startling and extraordinary. That was when he began to lose himself again, with this new dimension of the experience bringing everything to an even greater intensity. He hadn't been sure he'd be able to come again, after his solo session in the hotel room, but now he knew he would, and soon.  
  
He made a sound, or said something, though he couldn't hear himself or remember it later. He was aware of it only once it was gone, and Greg was responding with his own noise. Jim lost the ability to coordinate his movements in any efficient fashion and abandoned himself to Greg's mouth and fingers, bodily twitching as the orgasm hit. He'd meant to give another warning, but by the time he could speak again it was far too late. Nevertheless Greg seemed entirely happy to swallow, even grabbing Jim's hip to pull him in deeper as he came.  
  
The world began to exist again and he found their bodies pressed together; he was kissing that incredible mouth with the strange taste of himself on it, and Greg liked that -- a lot, because when he tried to end it so he could slide down and finish his earlier work, he found himself stopped. Greg's fingers closed around his wrist and guided his hand down. Jim twisted free to seize the shaft of his best friend's cock, squeezing hard as he pulled himself even closer, so lost in the kissing he couldn't tell when it turned into biting.  
  
Stroking unevenly but with what he hoped was satisfactory enthusiasm, Jim finally wrenched their mouths apart, took a deep breath, and buried his teeth in Greg's neck. He caught just a glimpse of how Greg's body arched on the bed, how red and sore his back looked even in the low light, and it tipped him over into that irrational place again. He ran a hand hard up from Greg's ass to his shoulderblades, scratching his fingernails deep against the welts as he bit. _Careful, be careful_ his mind pleaded, remembering his sick panic after his loss of control with the towel earlier. But Greg's hips thrust urgently against his hand, and he scratched again, bit down harder until he was sure he must have broken the skin.   
  
Greg sounded wounded, desperate, but he was coming; Jim could feel the twitching eruption over his hand. Finally he unclenched his jaw and fell back, hand still gripping until Greg pushed it away and flung himself back as well. They lay against the pillows side by side, breathing hard and looking at the ceiling, the window, anything but each other. Still, Greg's hand was on his, and their fingers entwined without either of them dying of shame.   
  
When the landscape had settled enough, Jim looked over and found Greg watching him. They shared a look of amused wonderment -- how it was that they could be here, after so long, and like this. But it couldn't be sustained, and shortly Jim closed his eyes and reached out, drew his friend near. "Are you okay," he whispered, feeling like an idiot, and House let himself be held, but laughed.  
  
"Yeah," he said, not whispering. "Just peachy. Am I bleeding?" He didn't sound angry, or worried. He sounded...pleased. Jim couldn't look at his face. He looked at the toothmarks on his neck instead.  
  
"No," he said, after a moment, hands pressed against the small of House's back. "Not quite. It's...probably going to bruise."  
  
House's forehead tilted in until it pressed against Wilson's neck. "Oh," he exhaled, and Jim tightened his arms. They were quiet a long time, then House said: "I need..."  
  
Wilson pulled away, sat up. "I'll get it for you," he said, emptily, and found House's jeans, found the bottle in the pocket. He tossed it over his shoulder without looking back. "I need to clean up," he said, looking at his hand, then feeling a sudden tight hot embarrassment at what he'd let House do to him, the slickness of lube between his legs. He got up, pulling the sheet with him to wrap around himself, not caring that House would mock his modesty. He heard the cap come off when he was halfway to the bathroom. His hand was on the doorknob when House's voice sounded again:  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Wilson had no idea what to say to that, so he said nothing, and opened the bathroom door.  
  
  
  
12.  
  
He'd been in the shower a long time when he heard House limp into the bathroom. He'd been lost, just standing there, not asleep, not awake. Thinking of nothing, feeling the slow cooling down of his systems. Ready to sleep. He couldn't feel the fear, but it was there, ironically familiar: the morning after, the potential awful silence...or worse, absence. He imagined waking up and finding House had gone to work without him, and couldn't make himself get out of the shower even once he was clean.  
  
So when the door opened, he felt relief. House, in a horrible, tattered orange bathrobe, pulled the curtain open, smirking because he was holding a towel, but a dry one, of course. "I'm tired," he said: "Come to bed."  
  
Wilson turned the water off. He reached out for the towel like they were in surgery, blindly, bringing it quickly to his face, then wrapping it around his body. House leaned against the counter, waiting, and when Wilson stepped out of the stall at at last he leaned forward, arms out, pulling him in for a damp, nearly naked kiss.   
  
They went back to the bed arm in arm. Wilson woke up several times in the night to the phantom sound of maids with vacuum cleaners waltzing across the ceiling, waving Do Not Disturb signs at him with knowing expressions. Each time, he was assured that he was not in his transient hotel bed, but House's, only when he felt the arm around his waist tighten as he stirred. House's body was warm and real against his, and eventually it soothed him into more restful sleep.   
  
When he woke up in the morning, they were still entangled, Greg's head resting on Jim's chest. The bite mark had indeed become a bruise, an L.A. sunset on House's neck. Wilson couldn't look at it for long without feeling like a junkie, like he'd dragged himself down to House's level, but he didn't care. He kept looking at it until House woke up and caught him, and they kissed again, touching each other nervously like schoolgirls. They didn't make it back to the diner until well after noon.   
  
\--end--


End file.
